


Polyglot Variations

by spoken



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abandonment, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Ensemble - Freeform, Foreign Languages, I promise it's not as bad as it could be, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Past Fic, Past Relationships, Teenage Victor, Young Victor, a story about learning languages, all places mentioned are real, and the facets of yourself you find when you do, basically ALL of Victor's backstory, it's viktor for reasons that will become clear, like an onion, no seriously this is just a 'let me show you ALL my young!victor headcanons', some gratuitous use of foreign words, this all started out because Victor canonically speaks French, victor nikiforov is layered, victor nikiforov's slytherin secondary working overtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoken/pseuds/spoken
Summary: ‘If first languages are reservoirs of emotion, second languages can be rivers undammed, freeing their speakers to ride different currents’ - Lauren Collins, Love in Translation, New Yorker (2016)The languages Viktor speaks, and what he finds as he's learning them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Polyglot Variations 多语奏鸣曲](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679111) by [blacklight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklight/pseuds/blacklight), [spoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoken/pseuds/spoken)



> A story that began with the canon tidbit that Victor Nikiforov can speak French and descended into a _monster_ that demanded me to give up all my Victor backstory headcanons. There is some (gratuitous) foreign language use, I'm sorry - but please indulge me. Translation notes are at the end.
> 
> [Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5255062) by [llonelysenpaii](http://tumblr.com/llonelysenpaii)  
> [Chinese translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679111) by [blacklight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklight/pseuds/blacklight)

**Russian**

He moves to St Petersburg a month before his twelfth birthday. In the heart of winter, the flurry of dancing snowflakes is at odds with the cold, which is sharp and purposeful, razing through the layers of wool and leather covering Viktor’s neck and hands.

His mother inspects every corner of the place, cataloging every defect with her gaze - signs of wear on the exposed metal piping in the bathroom, marks on the wallpaper and the flakes of white paint at the corner of the kitchen cupboards. The dimming afternoon light brings out the gold in her pale hair and stretches her shadow long and thin across the hardwood floors. Her entire presence is fragile and unusual, from the line of her cheekbones to the heavy sweep of her long coat. Viktor, unpacking his boxes at his small study table, tries to commit the shape to memory.

“Is that from your father?”

She’s pointing to the TV, already carefully placed in the corner next to the window on its own stand.

“I won’t watch it much,” Viktor promises.

His mother turns away from the TV with a sigh, the edge of her lip curling.

“Yakov and Lilia are two doors down,” she says into the silence between them. Viktor does not miss the way her eyes flicker to the silver watch at her wrist. “You will eat meals with them and they will take you to the practise rink when needed. Your school tutor has agreed to come three times a week and it is for you to keep up with your studies. Darya isn’t here to take care of you but she tells me she has taught you all the basics of keeping a house and it will be good for you to be independent. You have the money?”

 

“Yes,” Viktor says simply. She’s looking at him now, expectant and searching - always searching - for imperfections. He smiles instead, gives her nothing.

“Yakov will give you my birthday present to you tomorrow,” she says. She has to look up to meet his gaze - he’s a little taller than her now. “New Risports. Yakov says they're the best. Enough to last you all of next season.”

“Thank you Mama,” Viktor says. The words come out more like a question, scratchy and halting in its unfamiliarity. Like the cold, the language of his motherland has always run almost too deep to access, carved into the surface of his bones, the Cyrillic letters militantly spaced. Now, they’re clawing their way to the surface, hitting the lump in his throat. _I’m scared. Don’t leave me._ Viktor swallows them forcefully down. They’re not words he has said out loud, and he does not intend to try in front of her.

“Work hard Vitya,” she says, and he holds the soft ‘ya’ at the end of his name close and pretends she means ‘I love you’.

\--

Russian, for the most part, happens in Yakov’s voice.

 

Viktor’s old coach had, like his parents, been one of few words, speaking only to remind Viktor of his unsparing pursuit of perfection. Yakov is the opposite. Yakov’s Russian is the guttural growl of fighting words, the sort that Viktor imagines of dragons like Gorynych, and the dogs that guarded Baba Yaga’s house of bones. It’s a mythos that fits him and his training, which is a relentless and consistent stream of criticisms that regularly descends into yelling at Viktor over his free leg, of pacing through the lead up to his jumps, and keeping his body centered.

Dmitry and Polina, with all the confidence of sixteen-year-olds, roll their eyes back at Yakov. They throw insults at each other across the ice, and skid to sudden stops, kicking up ice shards, just to piss Yakov off. Alexei takes in all the criticism with his trademark look of boredom, then mutters resentfully the moment Yakov leaves. Georgi cries a lot.

Viktor’s not blind. He knows Yakov pushes him harder than the others; Yakov doesn’t let him get away with a double flip landing that he would have praised Georgi about. Viktor knows that he can spin more cleanly than Dmitry and jump just as well as Nika, yet receives more criticism than the others combined. Lilia does it too. She keeps Viktor back in her studio, practising extra routines alone in the glow of winter streetlights. She makes him do the movements over and over until he has it perfect, from the turnout of his foot to the angle of his fingers. Viktor takes it all in, listens and says nothing. There’s a part of him - the part that used to earn him approving nods from schoolteachers and his father - that knows this is good. That part says _be grateful, smile, they are pushing you hard because you have a chance._ There’s a larger part that is twelve and angry at how unfair it is.

“You’re so talented Vitya,” Nika tells him one day, her tone wistful. She’s the oldest of Viktor’s group of rink mates and is being pushed hard by Yakov to make up for not making the podium in the Russian Nationals last year. Viktor is looking at her skates slung over her shoulder and knowing Dmitry and Polina are waiting for her at the exit, wants to scream. He smiles instead, and keeps practising, alone on the ice.

\--

 

It happens, inevitably, when he just falls short of a clean triple axel. It’s been two months since Yakov added it to his practice routine. He gets the rotations in, gets his free leg over and experiences the flare of delight at the brief moment he’s balanced, before his toe pick catches on the ice and he’s down again. _Yob tvoyu mat_ tumbles from his mouth, unchecked and loud. Even Dmitry hasn’t sworn so badly in practice. He stumbles to his feet, bracing for a tirade. Instead, he finds Yakov frowning.

“Vitya,” Yakov says, his words uncharacteristically calm. “Your weight was on the wrong edge.”

Viktor takes a deep breath, through the harsh burn in his throat, and nods. Tells himself to relax. The shards of ice are still smarting bits of cold against his fingers, the impact of his last fall throbbing in his palm. He has a headache. The others went home two hours ago.

Yakov’s eyes narrow. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m _tired_ ,” Viktor snaps. There’s something wrong with his voice - the syllables are tumbling out sloppy, the same sort of wolf-and-witch growl that Yakov uses. His vision is watering and there’s a horrible swooping sensation in his gut like the moment before a fall, a whirl of colour, sound and the dread of impact. “They’ve all gone home and y-you don’t yell at them and I don’t _fucking_ know how to get this right!”

Yakov doesn’t give his usual exhaustive lectures about Viktor’s skating as they return to their apartment that night and Lilia doesn’t ask any questions, simply tells Viktor to clear the space at the small kitchen table. The plates of golubtsy and beef stroganoff are the first home-cooked meal Viktor’s had in months; between overtime in Lilia’s studio and the rink, his meals have largely consisted of pirozhki from the street vendors and takeaway containers of borscht and bread. Yakov and Lilia don’t cook often and when they do, Victor has rarely accepted their invitations to eat with them.  

“You’ve worked hard,” Yakov says gruffly into the silence. “But you need to be more honest.”

It’s the closest he will get to being comforting and Viktor, noting the small pursing of Lilia’s lips, accepts that he’s tried. But Yakov does lighten Victor’s schedule and arranges group practice sessions more frequently. He almost seems to like it when Viktor swears, and even smiles when Viktor whoops in delight as he lands the jump a fortnight later. The third time Viktor swears out loud, he’s messed up a step sequence in front of Alexei and Nika and their peal of giggles causes something to loosen slightly in Victor’s stomach.

Alexei finds him after practice the next day. “Come get food with me.”

“Okay,” Viktor says.

They buy ponchiki from pyshechniyes and throw bits of the dough at the seagulls circling the canals. Unlike Georgi, whose parents bundle him up and march him out of the rink like he’ll break after every session, Alexei arrives and leaves practice alone. He looks much older than fourteen in his winter coat, bag and beanie. He has a good sense of artistry, but not the technical skills that he would need to advance to podium-level, part of Viktor’s mind assesses decisively. Viktor clamps down on that thought and the accompanying pang of guilt and focuses on their conversation.

By the time they get to the bus stop, Viktor’s fingers are covered with icing sugar and he knows way too much about Alexei’s love for American spy movies, full of guns and Japanese ninjas jumping out of woods. Alexei lives with his aunt and uncle in a tiny flat that’s a stone’s throw from the train station. Viktor wonders how he can hear the TV. His own TV - true to his word - has barely been switched on in the last six months. When he invites Alexei over to his house to watch movies together, Alexei grins, his eyes lighting up. Viktor learns provincial slang from Alexei, learns about the farm that Alexei’s grandparents own in his hometown, and they butcher English together by imitating Luke Skywalker and James Bond. Alexei calls him Vit’ka and it feels like the wingbeats of St Petersburg’s seagulls against Viktor’s chest. It doesn’t make things right but it makes things easier.

\--

Alexei quits figure skating a year later and moves back home. It’s a month after Viktor’s gold medal debut at the Junior Russian Nationals. Viktor messes up a triple flip during the Junior Grand Prix event in Ostrava and attempts the quad toe loop instead. Yakov yells at him for a solid fifteen minutes in the kiss and cry and Viktor ignores him and waves to the crowd. Viktor lands the quad toe cleanly three weeks later, after a period of practice that is focused, relentless. Angry.

Yakov gifts him with Makkachin the following January. Victor, staring at the sleeping mass of chocolate curls in the cardboard box, briefly contemplates leaving her outside his neighbour’s door. Any evenings he does have off are full of static silences, curled into himself on his bed and watching the moonlight filter weakly through his curtains. He has no energy for a pet.

“ _Nu pizdets teper_ ,” he hisses, and picks up the box.

There had only been enough space for shreds of softness in Viktor’s life, observed and collected carefully between the harsh _shick_ of blades and straining muscle, and he had never learnt how to describe them properly: the poetry of lamplight in winter fog, the sparkle in Alexei’s eyes, the sound of Polina’s laugh, the summer sunset splashing colour across the water of the Neva.

Makkachin’s existence is soft. She sleeps, and eats, and loves him without condition. He uses his allowance to spoil her rotten and hoards endearments and pet names like a mantra to bring home to her, no matter how long the hours or how sore his feet and limbs. He calls her _milaya_ , _lapochka_ , _solnce,_ and tests the lines from Georgi’s cheesy romance novels on her. He talks about himself in third person, calling himself Vitechka and Vityusha and Papa, and she wags her tail and licks his face with enough enthusiasm that he doesn’t feel embarrassed.

He allows himself to cry in front of her when a bad fall and knee injury pulls Nika cruelly and forcibly from the senior circuit forever, and when Dmitry wins his last bronze at Nationals at eighteen and retires to study medicine. He practices what he’s going to say with Makkachin first. He knows the words, of course, but he likes to think Makkachin taught him how to say them out loud. _I’m going to miss you_ . _Thank you for being my friend. Good luck with the future._

Even when he learns other languages, he always speaks Russian with Makkachin. It keeps him honest.

 

* * *

 

**English**

 

He’s introduced to English like a first time swimmer is introduced to a tidal wave, when he wins silver at his first Junior Grand Prix Final and debuts with the highest Short Program score in Junior ISU history. Lilia has arranged for a translator, but Victor had over-rotated the quad toe loop in his Free Skate and it’s still too raw to vocalise in Russian.

He smiles instead, flips his hair behind his shoulder and answers in English, thinking about the American spy movies he watched with Alexei and of his childhood English tutor’s stern voice. He says, “I am honoured to skate here,” and the reporters coo and clamour to ask more questions.

English is a finicky, unpredictable language. It’s full of rules that are easily broken, verb forms that change at random, and structures that don’t make sense. Viktor hasn’t studied English properly since he was nine but he’s _good_ and knows it, in the deep-seated way he knows the blade will be waiting for him at the end of a jump. English follows him to his first gold medal - at last, _at last_ \- at the Junior Worlds half a year later. “Victor Nikiforov”, the press call him, and then ‘prodigy’ and ‘genius’, their syllables punctuated by camera flashes. His accent is a mess of upper class British and pop cultural American, but the press call it ‘elegant, unusual’, so he smiles and says, “Well, thank you very much.”

English is easy to Victor in a way that Russian has never been. Victor Nikiforov carefully enunciates his sentences with perfect grammar and a charming smile that gets his fans screaming and laughing. Victor Nikiforov is always flawlessly polite, mature and precocious for his age. _Tremendously talented_ , the commentators praise and Viktor repeats the word – tre _men_ dously, _tre_ mendous _ly_ – to himself and thinks it's fun.

English is the language of pompous old men at post-competition banquets, eagerly shaking his hand and talking sponsorship deals and interviews in the haze of genial drunkenness. Viktor laughs with them and remembers the numbers for later. Truth be told, he counts better in English than he does in Russian. And no one in the Russian team does sums in English faster than Viktor does. He has to know what his score is, after all.

\--

Lilia makes the point of only speaking to him in Russian, even though Viktor knows she’s fluent in English, French and probably Italian too. He sees her only at the beginning of each season now, and only intermittently at competitions. There’s a weariness on her face that matches Yakov’s and the silence between them that is familiar in a way that makes Viktor want to retreat from them. He spends his evenings in his own apartment instead, memorising English vocabulary words and insulting the two of them in Russian to Makkachin.

His father pays for Viktor’s coaching fee this year and his secretary sends Viktor a birthday note. His mother moves to Paris with her new boyfriend, a company executive she met on a trip. _Well done on the last competition_ , she says over the phone and Viktor takes it as a small victory.

He’s sixteen when Lilia sits him down to tell him she’s moving out of Yakov’s apartment. It’s the middle of the off-season, and she’s staying long enough to finish choreographing Viktor’s routine.

“Thank you for everything,” Viktor manages to say quite calmly. He’s aware of the patterns on the linoleum tablecloth, the faint tick of the hallway clock, and the sound of his own heartbeat. It’s only when he looks up and sees Lilia’s expression that it registers he’s said it in English.

“Vitya,” she says in Russian, unexpectedly soft. “Do not hide from me.”

 _Don’t go_ , Viktor wants to say but he’s never said that out loud. He takes Lilia’s hands and wills her to understand. Her hands are colder than his, fingers thin and elegant, and bare.

\--

Viktor’s theme that year is ‘control’. He sweeps the gold in every Junior competition and refuses to cut his hair. When he’s particularly pissed off at Yakov, he ties it in a chignon the way Lilia used to. Yakov doesn’t yell at him for it, just moves him into senior classes with the older skaters without comment. He ends with the highest Free Skate score in Junior Worlds history, to match his Short Program.

He loses his first real kiss to a French ice dancer at the banquet after Worlds. Seventeen, fourth place. He had approached Viktor with the wry smile of someone with a secret and whispered, ‘ _tu es extraordinaire’_ in Viktor’s ear as they stood on the balcony of the Bulgarian hall, nursing champagne glasses. Viktor is going to debut in the Senior Division next year. There are peers he should talk to, sponsors he should meet, but he looks at the fine line of the ice dancer’s jaw and the hunger in the other’s eyes and thinks _fuck it._

There’s reckless, burning energy in the pit of Viktor’s stomach as he backs the ice dancer against the door of the balcony, out of sight of the other guests. Emotion is bubbling like champagne in him, somewhere between arousal and anger, and a cold, hard part that he doesn’t want to name. He seizes the other’s tuxedo lapels, drags it towards him and opens his mouth, digging his thigh between the other’s legs and rubbing slowly, relishing the hitch in the other’s breath. He feels the other break the kiss with a low laugh.

 

“ _Ralentis un peu, chaton_ ,” the ice dancer says, voice breathy, the moonlight washing out the contours of his features until he’s just one, wide, smiling mouth. And uglier, somehow. He strokes at Viktor’s cheek once, then starts to move his hand down.

Viktor smiles at him, beatific. “I don’t speak French,” he says in English, then turns and leaves him.

\--

Mostly, English makes everything bad easier to take, and makes it easier to be generous, cheerful and social. After his senior debut at eighteen, he uses it to ask Cao Bin and Li Shang take him to hotpot in Beijing. Li Shang ropes in Keiji Izumo and Nikolai Marchei and some coaches, and they end up as a loud and rowdy bunch at _Hai Di Lao_ . Cao Bin introduces them all to pig’s blood jelly and Viktor and Nikolai burn their mouths on _xiao long bao_.

“You need come to Shanghai to try real thing,” Cao Bin says, three cups of _erguotou jiu_ later, swaying. His English skips particles and is clumsily enunciated, but is fervently enthusiastic. There’s something genuine about the delight in his eyes that Viktor likes. It’s almost enough to forgive Cao Bin for the Grand Prix gold medal. The Olympics are next year. Viktor doesn’t plan to lose again.

“Let’s do it!” he sings. Li Shang shoves another bowl of freshly steamed lamb and vegetables under his nose and that ends the conversation for now.

It’s fun, really. He and Nikolai have a quad battle at the gala and exchange emails in the off-season. Viktor promises to visit Florence as soon as Nikolai comes to St Petersburg. Cao Bin’s English isn’t quite good enough for emails but they can manage a quick, if garbled, conversation on MSN. They are the people who are closest to understanding the endless hours in the rink and travelling that consumes most of Viktor’s life. It is also because they are closest to understanding Viktor’s life that they stop replying as the summer ends. It is all subsumed, as it must be, for the season ahead.

Viktor choreographs his own routine for Euros and for the Olympics. He lands three quads, with Lilia, Yakov and his parents in the crowd at Turin. The roar of the crowd is deafening as he steps onto the podium to receive the gold. Neither Cao Bin or Nikolai make the podium but he knows they’re watching from the kiss and cry. The Russian team envelope him into a group hug as he leaves the rink and Viktor hugs back.

“I feel on top of the world,” he tells the press, and means it.

 

* * *

 

 

**French**

 

The thing is, French literally happens to Viktor by accident.

It starts with a bad fall during practice, right after returning home as Russia’s new national hero with the Olympic Gold, another gold at the Grand Prix Finals and a bronze at Worlds for good measure. He has an agent and publicist now, who schedule him for TV studios and photoshoots. Viktor spends the money and the month of his off-season moving into a new apartment, closer to the centre of St Petersburg. He makes the place light and airy and Makkachin sheds fur all over the furniture.

The twinge in his foot doesn’t get better when he gets back on the ice, and there’s a small feeling in Viktor’s gut that’s like landing on the wrong edge of the blade, the tilt before a collision with the ice. He ignores it. There’s too much to prepare for – the Grand Prix Final title to defend, Nationals, Euros, Worlds, and he’s almost ready to try the quad flip in competition.

He returns to Turin for the Grand Prix Final and manages to hang onto silver by less than three points. Viktor spends his birthday in Florence, and it’s easier to swallow his disappointment when he’s being overfed pandoro, Christmas roasts and _pasta in brodo_ by Nikolai’s large brood of a family. He buys Yakov a fedora from an award-winning Italian milliner to cover his bald patch for when he returns to Russia and scarves for his mother and Lilia. His ankle feels better during the few weeks of rest, so Viktor pushes on.

He wins the Russian Nationals, narrowly beating Georgi out for the medal but it’s the lowest score he’s ever received since his senior debut. He smiles and sidesteps through the sharkpool of a press conference afterwards, and wills the now persistent ache in his left ankle to hold.

Worlds is an unmitigated disaster. Viktor manages to land a quad lutz, to the roar of an unexpectedly adoring crowd in Tokyo but the sharp pain at the front of his ankle gives in halfway through a spin – of all infuriating things – and he falls. He ends up in fifth place and has the worst argument of his life with Yakov afterwards in the locker room of the Ice Palace in St Petersburg, and it ends with Viktor being forced to the specialists and an aggravating series of tests, scans and referrals.

Anterior ankle impingement, exacerbated by persistent dorsiflexion, the doctors say, disapproving. It would be best to take the season off if he wants to avoid surgery.

So French happens because it has to – because Viktor’s mother swoops in and insists, in her indomitable way, that Viktor spend time with her in Paris to rest. Not _with_ her, in the apartment she shares with Marcel in the 7th arrondissement, but nearby. Viktor rents a small flat on Rue de Meaux in the 19th arrondissement instead, ignoring her lectures about dangerous neighbourhoods. He likes the apartment, even if it’s a bit too big and draughty for him alone. He walks along the Seine on warm summer evenings and practices French phrases with old vendors at the local fruit market. He imagines Makkachin frolicking in the sprawling parklands of the Parc des Buttes Chaumont with a burst of longing. Paris is empty, without Makkachin.

The Patinoire Pailleron near his apartment is small, with an Art Nouveau façade that gives way to glass and geometric steel beams inside, full of light. Sometimes, he goes to watch the public skating sessions – groups of teenagers giggling and holding onto the wall for dear life, small girls in pigtails and tiny white skates flying across the ice, slender boys in the middle of growth spurts practising spins and jumps. Viktor corrects their form in his head and itches for the ice.

\--

French happens as a byproduct of a training stint his mother and Yakov organises with Stéphane Lambiel, a month into his recovery in Paris. The training itself happens entirely in twilight hour, in Viktor’s mind. He doesn’t remember much of it, only that Stéphane’s style of coaching is softer, more congenial than Yakov’s. Viktor choreographs impromptu free skates to Edith Piaf and gets drawn into trashy Europop because Gaël and Laurent, two of his rink mates, are _awful_ enablers. They’re good – not championship material, but good.

What Viktor does remember is the wild energy to Paris' neon-tinged night that's at odds with the white brick and blue roofed daytime. It’s a side that Gaël and Laurent are all too happy to teach him about and Viktor is all about learning.

In French, he is _Victor_ , which has all the fun of performance he associates with English but with smokiness to its pronunciation that is distinct to Parisian streets after hours. His mother had paid for French lessons, of course, but _Victor_ learns French through practice.  Laurent, with his model good looks and mysterious connections, gets them into Paris Fashion Week in the Spring. Viktor learns the names for body parts, fabric cuts and different wines at the Chanel after-party and backstage at Yves Saint Laurent. He learns to swear to the beat of clinking shot glasses in prestigious nightclubs (the after _after_ party) and listens to his name being exhaled in smoke and laughter in a ratty side street in the Latin Quarter, stumbling home with a group at 4AM.

They're joined in early November by an eighteen year old Swiss skater, Christophe Giacometti, who had won the Juniors after Viktor and debuted at the Grand Prix Final in fifth place. Chris is two years younger than Viktor with a voice twice as deep. He introduces Viktor to yoga, to Genevan chocolate and to labels like Vetements and Monsieur Lacenaire. Viktor teaches him how to land a quad lutz and hounds him about his step sequences until he gets it right.

He pretends not to notice the way Chris’ eyes follow him around the room, the way Chris always averts his eyes in the changeroom and blushes to his ears.

 

“You should just do it,” Gaël says as they lean against the barrier, breathing hard. Stéphane’s made them do fifteen straight minutes of step sequence because he's a _monster._ “Fulfil his childhood dream.”

 

Victor is watching Chris skate his free skate routine on the other side of the rink. Chris is good; he has an instinctive feel for music and emotion that will aid him once he perfects his jumps and refines his technique. The competitor in Viktor notes this with sharp eyes.

 

“No,” Victor says.

 

Gaël scoffs. “As if you wouldn't fuck a fan.”

 

Victor rolls his eyes. It's not a hard and fast rule - it’s just that he can never tell if it's him that they like or their idea of him. In Paris, the difference almost doesn’t matter. But, somehow, it does here. “He's not just a fan.”

 

Gaël gives him a strange look. “You wouldn’t romance a skater?”

 

Viktor has nursed crushes on older skaters, hopeless burning things that burn bright like a supernova and fade as the skaters leave, one by one. He thinks, inexplicably, to the ice dancer and the balcony in Bulgaria. Skaters are permanent, until they're not. They're too close to the ice, Viktor wants to say and knows it sounds ludicrous.

 

He settles for a cliche. “Only if I find the right one.”

 

“ _Oh la vache, nous avons un romantique ici_ ,” Gaël says dramatically, pretending to swoon. His laugh is half weary, half affectionate as he clasps Viktor’s shoulder. “ _Eh ben, bonne chance_.”

 

\--

Viktor sleeps with models instead, which is easy because half of them leave for ten thousand dollar shoots at 6AM and others are too busy running all over town for go-sees to get angry at him for forgetting to call. He falls in love with quiet bespectacled boys reading books, of which there is no shortage in Paris, and it always seems to last for the brief, glorious moment it takes him to walk past the café or get to his tram stop. He does it often enough that, one day, he stops to actually talk to one. The boy looks up at him, all wide brown eyes and a smattering of freckles, with so much awe in his expression that it makes Victor's heart clench and his stomach twist.

 _Have a good day_ , Viktor says and walks away.

He turns twenty waking up in his own bed in Paris, next to a model he had met at a party two weeks ago. He had spoken French to Viktor with a purr and had kissed him like he meant it.

His name is Dominique and he’s gentle and steady in a way that the others aren’t. Dominique stays overnight at Viktor’s apartment and cooks him breakfast in the morning and teaches Viktor French endearments while correcting his grammar. Dominique takes Viktor on dates to the Palais de Tokyo, buys Viktor roses at the Place de la Concorde, and calls him _Victor_ as he comes. Viktor, tracing the curve of Dominique’s cheekbones and full lips, mouths _je t’aime_ into the early morning light and the words almost fit.

\--

It ends. It ends with Viktor’s new routine for his comeback at the Russian Nationals, which has to be perfect. It ends with missed calls and dinner dates, which are replaced by the endless scrape of ice in the rink and the quad flip Viktor still can't get perfect. It ends quietly, with Dominique in tears and on his knees, saying _Victor, why?_ over and over. It ends loudly, with a party that Viktor throws at his apartment on his last night in Paris. He handwrites apology notes for his neighbours and invites everyone he knows.

 

Christophe finds him halfway through the night. Viktor’s on his fifth glass of champagne and Chris had commandeered the entire bottle early in the evening. They kiss once, sloppy and open mouthed against the doorframe leading to Victor’s balcony, slightly away from the press of dancing bodies, with Chris’ hands clutching at Viktor’s jacket like a lifeline. Victor pulls gently away. In the dim light of the party and wearing his clear round glasses, Chris almost looks like the boy at the coffee shop.

It would be so easy, Viktor thinks, lifting Chris' chin, watching the boy's eyes flutter closed, expectant and nervous.

 

" _Désolé_ ," Viktor says softly. He scrambles for words, and pauses. He’s never quite had to have this conversation.

Chris smiles, wry. The haze of alcohol doesn’t hide the hurt in his eyes but when he speaks, his voice is calm.

 

"Not your type?" he says. Viktor doesn't know what to say in response. Chris is silent for a moment and then says, "I met you at Euros three years ago."

"Oh?" Viktor searches his memory for that performance, which is made of patchy details; he remembers his stylist stressing on the phone about blue roses and the way the wire of the flower crown had been woven into his hair, tugging at the strands when he jumped. He remembers the roar of the crowd as he had landed that quad toe loop.

"You threw a rose at me," Chris adds. _Ah._ Viktor does vaguely remember a boy calling to him from the stand, He may have said something nice, may very well have thrown a rose. Many boys call at him from the stands, and girls too.

Christophe exhales loudly and takes a step away from Viktor, turning to look at where the narrow maze of Parisien streets extends below. It's almost December, cool enough for Victor to see his breath in the air. "I'll beat you one day Vitya. Just wait."

Chris’ gaze is slightly rueful, but kind. It feels like releasing the last of the laces of his skates after a long practice session, and Viktor is suddenly, immensely, grateful.

"Still friends?” Viktor asks in French, hoping the nuance translates. He doesn't like to think of his life as a cliche but sometimes it insists.

Chris laughs. " _Bien sûr_.”

 

\--

 

Viktor Nikiforov makes a comeback at the Russian Nationals at twenty-one. He lands the first clean quad flip in history at the European Championships and breaks the short program record at Worlds.

 

He dates Russia’s Eurovision representative when he’s 21, to the delight of the paparazzi who call them the gold and silver pair (Viktor, briefly, contemplates dying his hair gold and Illia tells him he's too competitive for his own good). They split up amicably right before Viktor’s 22nd birthday. Viktor’s theme for the season is wistful and ethereal, about swans and princes. He wins all the major competitions at 22 and Illia dedicates a song to him in his second studio album. It's sweet.

 

He meets a blue-eyed and dark-haired hockey player at Skate America the following year and ends up staying in Chicago for two months longer than he planned. Jack is serious and anxious and breaks up with Viktor to focus on clawing his team back up the NHL rankings. Viktor spends two days moping over ice cream and then skates a perfect season, defends all his titles and cements himself in the history books. His father calls and says _Congratulations_. Viktor thanks him and hangs up. He pays for his own coaching fees now. 

 

Nikolai retires after a bad injury at the NHK Trophy. Viktor calls him at 5AM in the morning from Chicago and wishes he could do more than wish him good luck.

 

“You're going to be a legend, Victor Nikiforov,” Nikolai says, and his voice wavers slightly. “I'm glad to have been your friend.”

 

There's never a shortage of beautiful people who approach Viktor at banquets and parties and events, with offerings of love, admiration, or just the pleasure of a night. It ends though. It always ends.

 

Keiji retires. Cao Bin takes two seasons off to recover from a back injury and Chris starts joining Viktor regularly on the podium, along with the bright young things that trickle, one by one, into the Senior division. Viktor contents himself with messing with Yakov’s new protege, Yuri Plisetsky, a boy with prodigious talent and a spitfire temper to match Yakov’s. Mila Babicheva, who he had coached at Yakov’s summer camp years ago, joins him as a rinkmate. She braids Viktor’s hair and keeps him up to date with skating gossip and Georgi's love life, and Viktor stops trying to choreograph programs for people.

 

On his twenty-fourth birthday, he cuts his hair short. Even that has to end.

 

* * *

 

**Japanese**

 

It's not that Japan is new. Victor has had several NHK assignments in the Grand Prix series by now and he knows he has an adoring, if inexplicable Japanese fan base. They greet him at the airport with banners and posters, send him drawings on Twitter and post birthday messages to him on their railway advertising boards. Victor speaks Japanese the same way he speaks Spanish, and Italian, Korean and Chinese - phrases of thanks, praise and random comments about the weather, enough to get him through interviews with local press.  

 

Hasetsu is new. ‘Vicchan’ is new, and Yuuri’s parents call him that with a familiar affection that reminds Viktor of the way he calls Makkachin. They speak Japanese with a sing-song energy and finish their sentences in ways that are different to the ones on his podcast (‘ _Saga_ _-ben_ ,” Minako snorts. “You have to study for ten more years before you can understand the dialect, so don't sweat it.”).

 

Apart from the first week of media frenzy and the Onsen on Ice spectacle, the biggest ‘new’ about Hasetsu is how no one seems to really _want_ anything from Viktor. Hiroko sneaks him extra servings of katsudon with a wink and Toshiya doesn’t mind Viktor’s silence - just shows Viktor the sports section of the newspaper and points enthusiastically at his soccer team. Minako demands Viktor’s company when she goes drinking but gives him half her ramen and is just as content to talk about her students and her love life as she is listening to him and giving him advice about Yuuri. Yuuri tells Viktor to be himself.

 

Studying Japanese turns the language into something completely new, full of unfamiliar characters, syllables and reading directions. Viktor hasn't hired a language teacher -- between coaching, Yuuri’s physical conditioning and settling in, there just isn't time. He downloads a language learning podcast instead, changes his phone settings to Japanese and the triplets give him their old textbooks and make him flash cards.

 

Viktor, at twenty-two, would not have dared wander into a language and city so unprepared. At twenty-seven, he has a better idea of when his perfectionism is unproductive, though it doesn't make it easier.

 

At the very least, Viktor speaking Japanese helps Yuuri relax. Viktor shouts out clumsy praise he learnt from the the triplets whenever Yuuri gets too stiff, and sometimes just food names when he can't think of anything else. It eases the mix of awe and anxiety in Yuuri’s eyes when he looks at Viktor, relaxes his shoulders and lights up his entire face.

 

For the most part, Viktor spends his first months in Hasetsu learning enough Japanese to get by, and trying to puzzle out this version of Katsuki Yuuri from the one he met at the banquet. This Yuuri is complicated, full of insecurities and nerves that unnecessarily mars the beauty of his skating. This Yuuri can be cold and avoidant, but also patient and generous. He gently corrects Viktor when he uses the wrong particles and demonstrates the correct stroke order when Viktor starts trying to learn _kanji_ . He rolls his eyes when Viktor gets bored and starts making up characters and translates everything into softly accented English when Viktor needs it. Viktor teaches him Russian phrases in return and watches Yuuri sound the words out carefully, respectfully. Sometimes they watch Japanese anime and Russian soap operas together. When Viktor valiantly attempts a Russian-to-Japanese translation, Yuuri laughs so much he tears up. Viktor watches him and thinks _I want more of this_.

 

\--

 

The big fight with Yakov that Viktor’s expecting happens over the phone because of Viktor’s sofa. Or more specifically, Viktor sending his sofa to Hasetsu, and the permanency it represents. He has no idea how Yakov found out about what he was doing with his possessions and groans because it was probably his mother.

 

“I'm staying,” he repeats against Yakov’s barrage of accusations - _selfish, risky, irresponsible, flaky_ \- and hates that his voice shakes a little. It’s been a long time since he’s been on the receiving end of Yakov’s tirades and this one has a bite to it that is new, and cutting.  

 

“STAYING,” Yakov roars back. “You're going to throw your career away to live in the middle of nowhere with a boy who is only mediocre! Vitya, you were not meant--”

 

“I’M _TIRED_ ,” Viktor shouts, and hangs up. He's breathing hard, his eyes are stinging and he feels twelve again, raw with the truth. He's expecting Makkachin’s cool nose against his hand, the way she always does when he's upset, but Makkachin isn't here - she's gone with Yuuri on his evening run and, for a moment, he’s angry about her absence. Viktor looks up at the ceiling and counts his breaths until he's steady again. He wipes his eyes and lies down on his sofa, the fabric soft and comfortingly familiar.

 

Quite a bit of time passes before there is a knock on the wooden doorframe. Viktor clears his throat and says, “ _Hai?_ ” and prays he doesn’t look too dishevelled.

 

“My mother said to give you this,” Mari says in accented English as she steps into the room, setting down a small tray with a cup of tea and a platter of small shortbread cookies. If she notices that Viktor’s eyes are a bit redder than usual, she doesn’t say anything. Viktor thanks her and sits on the tatami to sip the tea, listening to Mari’s footsteps retreat. It takes awhile before it occurs to Viktor that the walls in his new room are much thinner than the solid double brick of his Russian apartment. The tea is warm and somehow sweet, even without jam. It’s soothing, in a quiet, unimposing way. Like the sleepiness of the bathhouse after dinner. Like the sakura petals falling like snow in the moonlight outside.

 

\--

 

Ice Castle Hasetsu is also completely new, small and cosy in a way that his home rink in St Petersburg is resolutely not. The triplets are a slightly frightening force of nature. Viktor skates with them, corrects their spinning positions and they test his vocabulary and offer him their Pocky. Yuuko reminds Viktor of a combination of Hiroko and Mila at varying points, mostly gentle and bubbly, with a fiery strength in her that he appreciates.

 

It’s much quieter when Yuuko’s husband is the one managing the rink. Takeshi’s English level corresponds perfectly with Viktor’s Japanese, meaning neither of them are competent enough to sustain any sort of meaningful conversation without Yuuri or Yuuko to translate. Still, Viktor likes him - he’s stoic in the same way a lot of locals are, but he clearly cares about Yuuri and about skating.

 

It makes it all the more surprising when, after one practice, he greets Yuuri with a water bottle as usual and then waves to beckon Viktor over. He’s having a rapidfire conversation in Japanese with Yuuri, which has Yuuri flailing and making sounds of protest. Viktor knows enough Japanese by now to catch his name as he skates over to them and tilts his head curiously. Takeshi holds out something bright and pink as Viktor approaches.

 

“Hot,” he warns and Viktor takes it carefully. It’s a soft fabric pouch filled with something that feels like small round beans and it is, indeed, hot. Takeshi gestures at Yuuri and says something pointed, raising an eyebrow.

 

Yuuri flushes and determinedly avoids Viktor’s eyes. “Takeshi says he noticed you were favouring your shoulder yesterday and...this hot pack is for you.”

 

Viktor's seen Lost in Translation quite a few times - it was one of Christophe’s favourites. He's pretty sure he's getting the Bill Murray treatment and, judging by Takeshi’s expression, he’s also highly sceptical of Yuuri’s translation accuracy. Still. The heat pack is warm in Viktor’s hands. He’s not used to this - being watched for anything other than his technique and the cleanness of his jumps. Yakov wasn’t unkind - it simply was not part of training.

 

“ _Arigatou gozaimasu_ ,” he says and Takeshi and Yuuri’s faces crinkle with laughter.

 

“That’s too formal,” Yuuri explains, so Viktor pretends to make elaborate obeisance, the way he’s seen in anime. Takeshi laughs, loud and uproariously, and Viktor grins back.

 

**\--**

 

There’s a playful effervescence about Japanese that drags a similar feeling out of Viktor when he speaks it. When he finds out Minako was a gigantic Keiji Izumo fangirl back in the day, he Skypes Keiji in Montreal with her and calls him _Kei-chan_ at her prompting, which makes Keiji laugh and promise to visit next time he’s back home.

 

In Beijing, Guang Hong and Leo join in enthusiastically on a debate Viktor’s having with Yuuri about One Piece during practice at the China Cup, and insist on adding Viktor to their LINE group chat so they can send him links to more anime and Chinese dramas they like. When Viktor exclaims _umai!_ at hotpot out of habit, Phichit’s eyes light up and they spend the next thirty minutes swapping Thai, Japanese and Russian words and getting progressively more drunk. Viktor sings _ureshii_ , _sugoi_ and _banzai_ , and makes them all groan and laugh.

 

His night ends with the swirl of neon streetlights bleeding into the beige and white of their hotel, the vague impression of Yuuri’s hands around his waist, another holding Viktor’s arm over his shoulder. Viktor giggles at the voice in the elevator, announcing their floor number, and curls up in the soft white hotel bedsheets as the hotel room door shuts with a click. They drank _erguotou jiu_ this time too. Viktor thinks of Cao Bin and Li Shang and Keiji and Nikolai and suddenly feels terribly sad.  

 

“Victor,” Yuuri says softly, and there’s a slight dip as he sits down on the edge of the bed. He coaxes Viktor to turn his face and Viktor hums as a cool wet cloth is pressed to his forehead. Viktor looks up at Yuuri’s face, swimming in and out of focus, and squirms until his face is buried into the side of Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri’s fingers curl into Viktor’s hair, gently stroking through the tangles.  

 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor says, and he thinks he has the accent correct now. Yuuri startles a little as Viktor reaches out with his left arm and makes contact with Yuuri’s face. He might have knocked Yuuri’s glasses a little askew and thinks about trying for an apology but Yuuri sighs after a moment and lays a careful hand over Viktor’s, clasping them together against his cheek. His skin is warm. He might be blushing. Viktor wants to see the blush up close but sleep is gnawing at the edges of his vision and he’s drunk and happy and Phichit is his new _tomodachi_.

 

“ _Yuuri,”_ Viktor repeats and it suddenly feels very, very important to get the word right before he goes to sleep for real. “ _Yuuri, aishiteru_.”

 

The last thing he hears is a small intake of breath, perhaps a quiet laugh against his palm.

 

**\--**

 

When he reaches the vet, thirteen sleepless hours later and finds Mari and Hiroko with a sleeping Makkachin, he’s grateful that this is Japan, where he can have a moment of silence and it will not be questioned. He buries his face in Makkachin’s fur and murmurs endearments to her in Russian until his breathing is steady again. There’s too much he wants to say to the vet and to Hiroko and Mari, but Mari is not very comfortable with English and Viktor doesn’t want to push her into translating.

 

Viktor looks at Hiroko instead and wishes he could speak Japanese better. All he can do his reach up from where he’s sitting, grasp her hands - small and slightly callused - and squeeze. Hiroko squeezes back, nodding earnestly and looking a little teary herself. She resembles her son so much in that moment that it takes all of Viktor’s strength not to start crying.

 

“ _Daijoubu_ ,” she says slowly and carefully, and Viktor marvels at how much warmth she fits into three small syllables.

 

“ _Arigatou gozaimasu_ ,” Viktor whispers.

 

* * *

 

**Yuuri**

 

Katsuki Yuuri stumbles into Viktor’s life at a banquet with stars in his eyes, loops his arms around Viktor’s neck, says something in Japanese that Viktor doesn’t understand, and a voice in Viktor’s head - that is somehow neither Russian, nor English, French or Japanese - whispers, ‘ _stay_ ’.

 

Viktor doesn’t quite listen. A year later, sitting on his couch and staring at the boy skate his routine on Youtube, that voice whispers ‘ _go’_ and Viktor does.

 

Yuuri’s language is in the steely fire in his eyes as he prepares for a jump, the way he holds his leg straight and steady during a spin, and the way he disappears into the lyrical scrape of skate against the ice. It takes a long time for Viktor to learn this language properly - to know when he needs to step in and calm the nerves, or back off and let Yuuri find himself on his own. Yuuri’s language is the tentative hand he clasps over Viktor’s at the beach and his affection is the small allowances he allows - a light hand on Viktor’s arm to get his attention, the way his eyes crease in amusement, the tiny exhalation he makes as he relaxes into a hug. Viktor reads Yuuri well and he makes mistakes that cost him dearly, but he also learns how Yuuri forgives: a poke and hand on Viktor’s crown and then forgiveness sung, in every line of his body and the extension of his fingers, during his free skate.

 

When Viktor kisses Yuuri for the first time on live international TV, every language he knows is bubbling like champagne in his mind; it feels like the thrill and glow of new ice in early morning, full of unknown promises. In the end, he doesn’t say any of it. Yuuri’s hand grips the back of Viktor’s jacket and the look in his eyes says, _I know, I know_.

 

Viktor has hoarded endearments his entire life. He calls Yuuri _krasavchik_ and _kotenok;_ breathes _lubov moya_ against Yuuri’s lips, and Yuuri replies with touch and soft sounds, melting into Viktor’s arms like he’s been designed for them. Yuuri calls him Viktor, gentle on the ‘v’ with a slight roll on the ‘r’ and it feels entirely new in Yuuri’s voice. Yuuri reads him in turn, with an accuracy that is as unnerving as it is new. Yuuri knows when to give Viktor space and when to drag Viktor down from his flights of fancy, how to tease Viktor and leave him smiling, and how to demand Viktor’s attention and leave him breathless. Yuuri says Viktor’s name as a playful exclamation across the rink during practice, says it quietly right before the curtains lift to roar of the crowd, hands reaching for Viktor’s own, and gasps it in the dark, branding it on Viktor’s skin with his tongue and teeth.

 

Viktor holds Yuuri tight in a small, quiet airport, breathing in the smell of Yuuri’s shampoo and the scent on his jacket, and prays it never ends.

 

\--

 

It does, though, in their hotel room in Barcelona, delivered in Yuuri’s voice and accompanied by a smile that Viktor _knows_ is a lie.

 

Words are tumbling through his mind, through the roar in his ears, words like _je t’aime, I love you, ya lyublyu tebya_ , words that he wants to lay like offerings at Yuuri’s feet. But he’s said them before, to others, and to repeat them here does not seem enough. His throat is tight. He focuses on the solidity of the ring; it is _aishiteru_ beaten into metal and encasing his finger, a promise.

 

So Viktor cries. _Don’t go_. _Don’t leave me_. Viktor talks around the words and acts, and _still_ doesn’t know if it’s enough. But as he clasps Yuuri’s hand and watches him skate out to the roar of the crowd, it feels like he’s said it out loud for the first time in his life.

 

Yuuri understands.

 

Yuuri skates, and it’s an apology, a thank you and love wrapped up in four minutes and a quad flip that breaks Viktor’s world record.

 

Yuuri stays, and tells Viktor to be himself.

 

Viktor wakes up to Yuuri’s hand softly on his cheek, golden ring catching the light, and thinks _there are no words for this_.

**Author's Note:**

> Pls come yell at me about Victor and Yuuri and Yuri on Ice on my [tumblr](http://elaeye.tumblr.com) and [fandom tumblr](http://kaerb.tumblr.com) if you'd like~
> 
>  
> 
> **Translation notes**
> 
> Forgive me for indulging in gratuitous foreign words in this story - I tried to keep it sparing but...it is a story about foreign languages after all. I don't speak French and Russian so all detail relating to them is courtesy of Google, Google Translate and online language guides. In particular, Me-Za-Me-Ro’s [Russian curse words guide](http://me-za-me-ro.tumblr.com/post/154503846961/russian-curse-words-even-someone-as-patient-as) : P Don't hesitate in correcting me and thank you to everyone who has! 
> 
> _Yob tvoyu mat_ \- Motherfucker (a more severe version)  
>  _Nu pizdets teper_ \- Shiiit (what am I to do now)  
>  _Milaya_ (cute - feminine form), _lapochka_ (cutie pie), _solnce_ (sun/sunshine)  
>  _Ralentis un peu, chaton_ \- A little slower, kitten  
>  _Erguotou jiu_ \- The most famous rice wine in Beijing  
>  _Hai Di Lao_ \- Famous hot pot place in China  
>  _Pasta in brodo_ \- Pasta in broth, a traditional Italian Christmas dish  
>  _“Oh la vache, nous avons un romantique ici / Eh ben, bonne chance”_ \- Oh my god, we have a romantic here. God help you/good luck with that.  
>  _Bien sûr_ \- Of course  
>  _Saga-ben_ \- Local dialect in Japan  
>  _Umai_ (delicious), _ureshii_ (I’m happy), sugoi (amazing!), banzai (cheers/woo!!)  
>  _Tomodachi_ \- Friend (Victor's drunk and silly and slipping gratuitous Japanese into his thoughts)  
>  _Yuuri, aishiteru_ \- I love you Yuuri (this is super heartfelt/intense and hence Yuuri laughs bc he wouldn’t have taken it seriously at that point)  
>  _Daijoubu_ \- It's okay/everything’s alright  
>  _Krasavchik_ \- Beautiful  
>  _Kotenok_ \- Kitten  
>  _Lubov moya_ \- My love


End file.
